The golden desert stretched endlessly, rippling under the burning sun. Zaymir stood at the palace gates, his expression stoic, his hands clasped behind his back. He was not a man who welcomed guests, least of all him.
Zéphir.
A childhood rivalry now buried beneath years of cold detachment. The boy who once shared his mother's milk after Zéphir's own mother died had grown into a man Zaymir had little patience for.
Yet, Here he was—stepping down from his horse, his blue eyes sharp, his golden hair gleaming like the foreign prince he was—in stark contrast to Zaymir's dark curls, deep brown eyes, and tanned skin, a proud reflection of his Middle Eastern lineage.
Behind him, servants rushed to handle the curtained seat mounted on the camel.
And then she emerged.
Zéphir's wife.
She stepped down carefully, her movements hesitant, as if uncertain of her place. Veiled, modest, foreign.
Zaymir's gaze flickered, just for a moment. She stepped hesitantly onto the sun-scorched ground, her hands clutching the edges of her veil as though seeking protection. She was dressed in fine silks, but they did little to hide the nervous way she moved, her body slightly hunched, as if trying to make herself small.
She is afraid.
Zéphir barely glanced back at her, not offering a hand. She was an afterthought.
Her skin was pale, untouched by the desert sun, and her lips parted as she took in the palace before her. Zaymir noted the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed, the way her fingers trembled against the folds of her dress.
Zéphir glanced at her and scoffed. "Do not cower. It is only Zaymir."
The words held disdain, as if speaking of something lesser. The woman flinched, her gaze darting to Zaymir before quickly lowering. She did not greet him, did not speak. She simply stood there—like a doll trapped in a foreign world.
Zaymir nodded. "You arrived later than expected."
"Is this how you greet me, brother?" Zéphir's voice was smooth, edged with something mocking. He spread his arms as if expecting an embrace, though he knew better.
Zaymir turned on his heel. "Come inside."
Zaymir's gaze flickered to her once, briefly, before settling back on Zéphir.
Zéphir arrived too late. The funeral had passed. The woman who nursed him as her own was gone, and he had not even been there to say goodbye. Zéphir met Zaymir's gaze, but there was no warmth between them—only the weight of the past, the distance time had carved, and the cruel reminder that the woman who once held them both to her breast was gone. His fingers curled at his sides.
He led them through the grand halls of his palace, the heat from outside lingering in the air. Servants scurried to prepare a feast, but Zaymir's mind was elsewhere. He could feel her presence behind him—quiet, fragile.
Now they sat together, sharing a meal.
They sat on plush cushions around a low, intricately carved wooden table. The table was adorned with rich dishes, fragrant with spices. Golden lamps flickered against the mosaic-tiled walls, casting a warm glow over the richly woven rugs beneath them.
Zéphir spoke of trivial things—business, war, trade—but Zaymir barely listened. His focus kept drifting, against his will, to the woman seated beside Zéphir. She ate little, barely lifting her gaze. She trembled whenever Zéphir's voice turned sharp, and once, when he grabbed her wrist too tightly, she let out the faintest, almost inaudible whimper.
Something cold slid through Zaymir's veins.
Zéphir caught his gaze and said. "She is useless, you know." He leaned back with boredom. "Timid. Weak. She can barely handle a simple journey without complaining."
His wife stiffened, fingers tightening around the goblet she held. She didn't speak, didn't defend herself. She only lowered her head further, as if accepting the insult.
Zaymir exhaled slowly through his nose. He had no reason to care.
And yet, as she silently placed the goblet back down, hands curling into her lap, he found himself watching.
He said nothing. He had no right to interfere.
But his grip on the goblet tightened.
*****
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